


as long as you'll have me.

by harryandtimmy



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 18:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryandtimmy/pseuds/harryandtimmy
Summary: Oliver impulsively leaves home and meets his love off the coast of Italy.Featuring a dusty book, a stolen boat, and a moon that sees everything.





	as long as you'll have me.

**Author's Note:**

> This is roughly based off a one-shot that I wrote in 2013. I changed a lot, but there might be things that are still similar.
> 
> Also, this is my first CMBYN writing, so please, be gentle with me. I hope you enjoy it and welcome me into the CMBYN writing fandom with open arms.

The disco music echoed in his ears, and the words weren’t quite words anymore; they were only a muddled mess of far-too-loud bass and a rhythm to which he just couldn’t move. The room smelled of cologne, perfume, and hormones, and the floor vibrated with the gyrating bodies of over one hundred people. As he watched the chaos flowing throughout his parents’ house, he quietly huddled in the corner, sipping thoughtfully on his beer. Five feet to his right was a closed door, and he eyed the exit to his refuge.

His mother thought it would be a good idea. _Have your friends over_ , she said once summer break hit. Oliver, of course, invited his closest friends, which led to them inviting their friends, and the vicious chain began. Now, Oliver was standing in a crowded room with not one person he knew or cared to see. It was the first day of break at their new summer home on the coast, and though his mother and father meant well, Oliver couldn’t quite grasp the feeling scratching its way through his body.

It wasn’t about the money, no; that wasn’t it. It wasn’t about the never-ending gifts and words of praise, not that. Oliver didn’t care about those things anymore. He got accustomed to them; he was raised that way. When he was three, he received a small motorized car, and when he broke it the next day, he was given an exact replica an hour later. When he was ten, he didn’t even ask for it, but his parents gave him two puppies. By that age though, he became used to the doting, and Oliver became just as bored with the dogs as the toys from years prior. The worst of all, on his seventeenth birthday, he found a car and a motorcycle sitting in his family’s driveway, and they were both for him. It rendered Oliver speechless, not because he was in awe over the presents, but he was disappointed in them. He was just one person, a wide-eyed and spoiled seventeen-year-old, and somehow, he was the one out of millions that was given two modes of transportation that day. His family’s lifestyle quickly became tiresome after.

The loud thumping from a song pulled him back to the reality before him. His stomach ached from lack of food, and his head thumped, a migraine forming. Despite it being one in the morning, the party was far from over. The music slipped from upbeat to slow, and Oliver took his chance to leave. Grabbing the doorknob next to him, he retreated into the dusty den. He slammed his back against the door and slid down, resting peacefully on the floor. He brought the beer bottle to his lips and tipped it back, the murky liquid trickling down his dry throat. In this room, the music was muted and dulled, and Oliver finally had the chance to think, something his family swore he could never do himself.

Oliver was twenty years old. He still lived at home. He was going to school, but his attention was elsewhere, per his attendance and grades. He wanted something that his parents couldn’t buy him no matter how hard they tried. He needed experience; he needed adventure; he needed to touch a word that he couldn’t pull from his tongue.

As he took another sip of his lukewarm alcohol, he pushed himself off the floor and walked over to the bookshelves on the back wall. His fingers brushed against the spines, dust floating to the floor. Gingerly, he pulled out one of the books, not touched in over a year at least. As the spine cracked and the book screamed to be shut again, the words on the page to which Oliver opened shouted at him. One word jumped out, begging to be seen. _Freedom_.

He didn’t realize how badly he craved it until it was right in front of him. Oliver crinkled the page and ripped it out, knowing no one would miss it. This would be the only tangible evidence that justified the wild thought that popped into his head. He slid the book back into its rightful spot and opened the door to the living room. He kept his head down as he walked past people vying for his attention, and just before exiting the house, Oliver grabbed his car keys on the coffee table.

Running down the front stairs and sliding into his car, he tucked the paper into his back pocket with his wallet. He turned the key in the ignition and looked down at what he was wearing: Washed jeans, a light blue t-shirt, high-top white Converse, and a billowing, off-white, and wide-open button down. Realizing he would be wearing these clothes for an unknown amount of time, Oliver shrugged and slammed his foot on the gas. He reasoned that these conservative 1982 era clothes would work just about everywhere.

Oliver ended up in a large parking lot about an hour and a half later, three in the morning quickly approaching. Not feeling an ounce of fatigue, he jumped out of the car, locking it behind him. His cells pulsed with excitement as he walked across the lot and into the fluorescent light of the busy building. He picked a random ticket line inside the airport and walked up to the attendant with a smile on his face.

“What time is the next international flight out of this airport?” Oliver’s heart beat with exhilaration at the words coming out of his mouth.

The flight attendant looked at him quizzically, but nonetheless, she looked down at the screen. “The next flight out of the country will be leaving in about two hours, close to five in the morning.”

Oliver smiled widely. “Perfect, I’d like to buy a one-way ticket.” He pulled out his wallet and placed a small pile of cash – a gift from his parents – on the counter.

The attendant looked baffled. “Okay, then,” she hesitated, picking up the money and printing a ticket for the flight. Before handing him the ticket, she asked, “Don’t you want to know where you’re going?”

He snagged it from her hand. “Where?”

“Marseille, France.”

“Wonderful.” Oliver gave her a quick wink, turned around, and headed for the gate printed on his ticket.

The next two hours flew by quickly, and Oliver barely caught any shut-eye. He kept checking his wallet, counting the money he had left. He reasoned he wouldn’t be able to live for too long on his parents’ donated money, but if he stayed overseas longer than two weeks, he would have to find another way to get some funds. Without stirring up so much as a sweat, he tucked everything back into his pocket, knowing gambling was his best route to getting more cash quickly. Right before his plane was set for boarding, he pulled out that book page one last time. Oliver peered at that one word again as he stepped on the plane for his first big adventure.

The flight was long, and Oliver was listless. He shut his eyes a few times, nearly resting his head on the person sitting beside him. By the time they landed in Paris for a layover, Oliver had maybe three hours of sleep, and he stumbled out of the airplane with a numb leg and a stifling migraine. He limped through the airport in search of a coffee shop on his way to the connecting gate. He followed the smell of coffee and found a shop in a corner right next to a money conversion station. Oliver pulled out his wallet, placed the rest of his money on the counter in front of the money teller, and hoped she knew what he wanted: Oliver didn’t know a word of French.

He thankfully received the proper equivalent of francs back, and Oliver slouched over to the coffee shop, yawning in the process. He managed to order a small coffee by pointing at the small cup followed by the pot of coffee behind the counter. The shop owner was brusque; Oliver reasoned it was from his French ignorance. Downing the coffee before even entering the new gate area, Oliver came to the conclusion he was going to have to try to learn French; so he bought a French sayings book right before hopping on the short flight to Marseille. He passed out on the flight and read none of the book.

Marseille was gloomy. With his new book in hand, Oliver eyed the skies hesitantly as he walked out of the airport and into the taxi of a burly Frenchman. The man turned in his seat and stared at Oliver, confused by his lack of baggage. Quickly, Oliver flipped through the book’s pages and found the word for which he was looking.

“L’océan?” Oliver muttered, embarrassed by his horrible pronunciation.

“L’océan?” the man repeated back but with the proper French accents. “Euh… La port, peut-être? La port de Marseille? Avec les bateaux et la carnival et tous les choses comme ca?”

There was only one word that Oliver caught, and an idea popped into his head. “A port? With boats?” The man nodded, seeming to understand. “Yes, oui… Port, merci.”

As he neared the coast, the skies slowly cleared, and Oliver felt more confident in his new impulsive decision. Rain would have been a bad omen to him, but now that the skies were inviting him to the sea, Oliver smiled because of what he was to do next. The taxi driver dropped him off right in front of a port with twenty, maybe more, boats anchored down. As he tipped the driver, Oliver found a little store off to his right with clothes similar to his style displayed in the window. He made that store his first stop in Marseille and bought himself another pair of jeans, shorts, and two more light shirts; he reasoned his Converse would last the trip. He then sauntered over to a little outdoor market and purchased as much meat, cheese, and fruits he could manage to fit in the reusable tote they gave him. He sat down on a small bench to gather his things, but before he knew it, he leaned his head back against the building behind him and fell asleep.

His necked ached something fierce when he woke, but his bag was still wrapped around his wrist with the items still inside. It was dark now, the moonlight shining down on the harbor. A few people moved about on the streets, and Oliver came to quickly, realizing now would be the perfect time to execute his mad plan.

It was a boat, just a boat, docked on the boardwalk leading into the sea. It had one sail supported by one mask in the middle of the deck. The sail billowed in the wind, and the boards of the dock creaked; Oliver lit up brighter than the reflecting moon. The boat called to him and pulled him down the dock. As he got closer to his freedom, he realized what he was about to do was unforgiveable. But when he stepped onto the boat that reminded him of his father’s, he knew that, no matter where he would go, anywhere would be better than the exhausting lifestyle he had back at home. And two weeks, maybe more, at sea with frequent stops on the coast would surely quench his thirst for freedom. So he left one hundred franc, not nearly enough for the boat, underneath the rope on the dock and sailed the newly stolen boat out of the harbor.

The wind blew that night in his favor, and he made it out to sea about a mile offshore. He followed the land to his left as he drifted peacefully alongside of France. The lights shown bright on shore, but the stars were brighter, giving Oliver the light he needed to scuttle around the small boat and get everything he would need. He found nonperishable food in a cabinet under the deck, right next to a small but comfortable bed. Resting on a shelf above the bed was a small, leather-bound journal, and after quickly skimming through it and finding it empty, Oliver pocketed it. He grabbed a blanket and a pillow from the bed, and he laid out on the deck towards the bow, watching the stars drift past him.

He was twenty, a man of his own destiny, and all he had to his name was a wallet, a credit card, a few hundred bucks, and a stolen, but mildly repaid for, boat that gave him a journal and some stale crackers with beef jerky. Every second before that moment, he had everything; anything he wanted, it was his. Suddenly, all the tangible things he owned disappeared, and now, he just had his thoughts and freedom. The adventure, the big-picture, a look into real life, he couldn’t wait to have that as well.

By the next day, he was already coming up on the small French island in the Mediterranean. Oliver knew it existed and was happy to find it, but he didn’t dare look at a map to know the name of it. He knew Italy was to the left of him, and he reasoned he would eventually dock somewhere on Italy’s coast.

By day two, he rounded the coast of the island and travelled down the boot of Italy. Oliver picked up his newly acquired journal. In the journal he kept at home, he would write something down that was worth documenting: A first kiss, a stomach full of butterflies, a secret, or a confession. His confessions were not something he would share with his parents. In their world, their perfect, money-filled world, Oliver’s demons were not something they wanted. Truthfully, Oliver didn’t want them either.

Oliver started thinking – a lot. His demons, his deepest secrets, kept coming to the surface, brushing past the barriers that held them back for over four years. As the sun shown down on him, he wrote in the journal, frantically trying to capture the thoughts that resonated in his head; he willed them to be cast out as he looked forward to a future where he came to terms with them.

It started with the first time he kissed a girl; in his bedroom at fifteen, it was strange. Her lips moved with his, but they were dancing to a different beat. His hands travelled over her body, but he didn’t have any direction. When he kissed her for over fifteen minutes and when she left his room, he looked down at his jeans and saw nothing, no sign it had meant anything physically to him.

He really started using his journal back at home after that. Those thoughts he wrote down were mean, hateful, and harming to him. For a year, he sat in anguish, tortured with who he was and unwilling to make a move towards that life.

Three months after his sixteenth birthday, however, something changed. Oliver didn’t even know their names, still doesn’t, but they caught his attention across a coffee shop. One man was lanky and curly-haired, and he had another man draped over his shoulders. The other was roughly his height and build. Then, right before Oliver’s eyes, the taller man leaned down and kissed the other.

Oliver coined that moment as the realization that it wasn’t shameful to like men, though he still internalized that harmful thought at times.

He shut his journal and watched the sun set. The boat rocked beneath him, putting his nearly empty stomach on edge. He craved land, human interaction, and quite frankly, a drink. In just two days, the coast of Italy, somewhere he always wanted to go, was in sight. Fighting against the wind, he docked on the beach of a small town, and after looking at a map he found in a drawer, the town sat on the coast in front of Rome. The buildings were rustic, and people were scarce. Just as night fell, Oliver followed the sound of sweet, melodic Italian music and hoped that music meant a bar.

Oliver entered what seemed to be a town square, and two little boys ran past him as they followed their mother in front of them. A small sign hung in front of a little coffee shop that Oliver vowed to visit before leaving. He smiled at the quaint town and followed the music, drifting towards a small bar in the corner of the square. When he walked in, the smells of alcohol and Italian cuisine filled his senses. The ambiance was rich and decadent, and Oliver took a seat at a table, not wanting to leave. The menu consisted of things he couldn’t decode, but he labeled his inconvenience as part of the adventure.

He heard footsteps coming his way, no doubt the waiter. By now, his anxiety was kicking in slightly, not wanting to make a fool out of himself. His eyes glanced over the menu, looking for anything that he could make out. The waiter stopped at his table, placed a carafe of water down, and spoke as Oliver looked up.

“Buonasera.”

Oliver’s heart beat a little faster as he gripped the menu tighter. The waiter’s eyes sent a current through Oliver’s body. His eyes travelled down the boy’s figure – beautiful face, tiny waist, long legs. Oliver was glad he waited until now to dock, and he was doubly glad he changed out of his clothes before coming here.

The waiter smiled, his eyes glistening. “Buonasera, signore.” This time, there was laughter hidden behind his words, and Oliver certainly didn’t want him to stop speaking.

“Uhm, hi.”

The boy’s smile remained. “Oh, you are American?” Italian undertones threaded his accent, and somehow, he became even more attractive to Oliver when he spoke English.

“I am.” Oliver gave him his best smile. “I’m a tourist here, just docked. I’m glad I found this place.”

He couldn’t help but grin. “Me too. Is there anything you want?”

Oliver glanced down at the menu despite knowing it would be fruitless. “How about surprising me? And maybe bring out a drink? Beer?”

He nodded. “My name is Elio. You are…?” He gestured to Oliver.

“Oliver. My name is Oliver.”

“Oliver.” His name hung on Elio’s tongue, echoing in Oliver’s ears.

As Elio walked away into the kitchen, Oliver leaned back in his seat, putting the menu down; he got back the breath he hadn’t realized he lost. From his hazel-green eyes to his lean figure, Elio left Oliver breathless and euphoric, and for once, Oliver let himself feel these raw emotions. This was part of the freedom he wished to gain, and back at home, he would never dare stare with desire at a man for longer than ten seconds. But as Elio came back carrying a beer in one hand and a pasta dish in the other, Oliver’s confidence came through, and he was determined to make the most of this freedom.

With a smile on his face, Elio placed the plate with the beer in front of Oliver. “Enjoy.” Each letter of the word was pronounced, emphasis being placed on the simple, five-letter word.

Before he turned to leave, Oliver took in a deep breath and spoke, “Elio, would you like to join me?” Oliver looked around the bar quickly, and save for a few towards the back, there was no one else in the restaurant. “I don’t know what’s around here, and maybe you could help me be a good tourist.”

Elio’s grin warmed Oliver’s fearful heart. Elio took off the black apron his long torso donned and took the seat across from Oliver in the booth. Elio’s eyes locked on his, and much like before, Oliver’s body started responding in ways unfamiliar to him. His palms started to perspire, his heart raced, and his stomach filled with butterflies; and though fear was his natural response, he suppressed that worry and opened his mind to the possibilities.

Attempting small talk, Oliver looked down at the dish in front of him. “What exactly is this?” He twirled the fork in the pasta, playing with the small pieces of tomato and the light sprinkling of basil; the oil made the pasta glisten in the dim light overhead.

Elio smiled playfully. “Trust me; eat it.”

“Okay, okay; I’ll eat it.” As he twisted the fork in the pasta, Oliver felt Elio’s eyes on him, and when he finally looked at him, Elio’s face held no judgement; only curiosity and – what Oliver hope to be – bliss. Oliver gleefully brought the mouthful to his lips and use his tongue to take it off the fork. Elio swallowed as he watched him, and Oliver refused to take his eyes off him. He would have never been this bold in America, but as he tried his best to seductively eat the pasta, Oliver knew Elio was bringing his confidence out.

After Oliver took his second bite, Elio smiled. “Ti piace? Do you like it?”

“Absolutely; my compliments to the chef.”

“Thank you.” The way Elio kept Oliver’s gaze sent a shiver down his spine.

“Oh, you made this yourself? Well, I’m going to have to keep you around; you’re an amazing chef, Elio.”

Under the golden lights, Oliver noticed the faintest blush coat Elio’s cheeks. His eyes fluttered again, and he looked down at the table. “Grazie.” As he looked up, the blush still on his face, Elio met Oliver’s eyes. “I’d love to stay.”

That was it; in that very moment, Oliver was convinced he would never leave Italy.

Suddenly, the words trickled out of Oliver’s mouth without any ounce of regret, and his body breathed a long-overdue sigh of relief. “I’d love for you to stay, too.”

Three drinks later and a much-needed translator, Elio closed the bar. The two of them talked about everything and anything in that time, the drinks loosening both of their lips. Elio discussed his family back in Crema, Italy and how he was living near the coast now for his own freedom as an eighteen-year-old wanting to find himself. Oliver quickly spoke about his trip for freedom, mentioning his stifling family and the life he no longer wanted to lead and how he should probably call his parents to let them know he’s fine.

They danced around compliments; Oliver kept bringing up Elio’s curls, and Elio continued to ask Oliver to say his name, insisting that Oliver just said Elio _perfectly_. As the two of them left the bar together, Elio’s arm draped around Oliver’s lower back, and Oliver placed his arm perfectly on Elio’s shoulders. Elio kept drifting closer to Oliver, their bodies flush against each other as he whispered sweet nothings into Oliver’s ear. One pertained to Oliver’s height and how Elio had never met a man as tall as him; another Oliver realized was a melodic Italian song; but one stood out the most: _I want to see your boat._

Oliver didn’t know the first thing about any of this, but he grasped onto the implication that Elio sent his way, knowing that there was more that Elio wanted then to just see the boat. By the time they reached the dock, the moon was high above, the water a mirror beneath it. Oliver watched Elio’s every move, every expression, and when the boat came into view, Elio smiled and his pace picked up. Oliver walked in tandem and gave Elio his hand when they stepped onto the deck. Elio muttered comments here and there, Italian phrases filling the silence. Oliver just stood in awe as he watched the most beautiful man stand before him, fluttering back and forth across the deck. And as that thought sank in, Oliver knew he was well past smitten and more than ready for whatever was to come next. And surely, Elio disappeared into the cabin, and Oliver willed his legs to follow.

Elio sat on the edge of the bed, smiling brightly at Oliver. In that moment, Oliver truly thought, _Who needs the light of the moon at night when I have Elio?_

“I like your boat – I mean – the boat that you’re using. It’s nice.”

He ran his hands back and over the bed sheets, closing his eyes and arching his back. In that position, Oliver looked at Elio’s exposed neck and immediately wanted nothing more than to suck a mark on him. His breathing faltered, and instead of coming up with an excuse for why he was still standing, Oliver took a chance and sat down next to Elio. There was no space between them; Oliver felt the warmth coming off Elio’s skin. Elio turned to Oliver, and their faces were now inches from each other. The tension built in Oliver’s body like a taut steel cable, and it was he who closed the gap, shocking himself but letting his body fulfill its wishes. Oliver kissed Elio, his hand trailing down his back, and Elio reciprocated by threading his hand through Oliver’s hair. Suddenly, the language gap was the furthest thing from their minds.

Elio rocked backwards, trailing his tongue over Oliver’s bottom lip, as Oliver climbed on top of him. Elio wrapped his legs around his waist, and Oliver slipped his hands under Elio’s shirt and pulled it off. Elio did the same for Oliver, and the two met lips again with open mouths and passionate tongues. Oliver quickly moved from his lips to his neck, biting and kissing right below Elio’s jaw, and as he pressed closer, Elio’s body radiated with heat; Oliver’s pants tightened in response.

Wanting to gauge his reaction, Oliver held himself up and looked down at the red-faced and breathless boy beneath him, and the words stumbled out of his mouth: “You are so beautiful, Elio.”

Elio trailed the back of his fingers down the side of Oliver’s face. “Beautiful,” he whispered.

Adoration soaked through every part of Oliver’s being, and he turned his face to kiss Elio’s gentle fingers. Elio’s hand travelled behind Oliver’s ear and to his neck where he pulled Oliver back to him, pressing his lips against his. They stayed like that a few minutes longer, both too hungry for one another to separate but both distracted by the thought of what was coming.

They unwound themselves and stripped down to nothing. Elio laid on the bed, his lean body firm and his cock stiff against his stomach. Oliver shook his head in disbelief, bewildered by his natural beauty and confidence. As he moved on top of Elio and as Elio wound his legs around him again, Oliver choked back a moan, their cocks touching. He was fully conscious of Elio; his senses were heightened. Oliver felt it all: Every trail down his back, every kiss on his neck, every linger on his lips. When Elio’s legs tightened around Oliver’s shoulders and Oliver’s lips wrapped around his cock, Elio’s gasps became Oliver’s choked moans. Elio’s cries drove Oliver because he wanted nothing more than to hear those broken words slip from Elio’s mouth. When the moonlight finally shown into the cabin, basking the two lovers in pure white, Elio arched his back once more and a broken cry escaped his lips. Oliver felt Elio in his mouth and, having never felt so aroused before, came into the sheets. He dug his fingers into Elio’s hips, eliciting a soft moan from Elio; his body relaxed beneath Oliver’s grasp.

Mustering up the energy, Oliver moved right next to Elio, their hands naturally intertwining. Elio looked down at Oliver’s spent cock and smiled, finding a spot in the nape of Oliver’s neck and staying there. Oliver didn’t know if it was the gentle rocking of the boat or the simple breathing of Elio beside him, but that night, Oliver fell into the most peaceful sleep of his life.

By morning, the sun shown directly into the cabin, and Oliver woke up disoriented. He turned and immediately recalled the night before. Lying next to him was Elio, his curls over the pillow and his red lips pushing out light coos on every breath. Oliver just watched him sleep, entranced by the sheer beauty of such a natural act, and as if he felt his stares, Elio twisted slightly and buried his face in Oliver’s neck again. A breathless _buongiorno_ slipped out of Elio’s lips as he placed a kiss on a mark from last night. Oliver wanted his moment, along with other moments from last night, to continue forever; but as the seconds went by, the finality of the situation began to sink in, and Oliver’s stomach tightened. He didn’t know what happened next.

Slowly but surely, the two of them got up, woozy from the night before and the boat rocking beneath them. Oliver silently watched Elio put his clothes on, admiring the curves of his body and his muscles as they moved beneath his skin. Fully clothed, they walked back on deck, and sure enough, the boat was still tied to the dock; Oliver had hoped they drifted into the middle of the sea, so he wouldn’t have to endure an inevitable goodbye. He watched as Elio walked towards the dock, ready to get off the boat. Oliver lingered behind with low hopes because Elio had a life here and he was just passing by.

Elio turned back to Oliver, a surprising smile on his face. “Boats sometimes make me feel…” He searched for the word.

“Oh, do you get seasick?” Oliver finally noticed that the boat had been rocking more than it was last night.

Elio nodded. “Come on.” He held out his hand. “Let’s get breakfast.”

Without hesitation, Oliver took his hand. As they headed to town together, Oliver’s stomach eased, and his heart felt light again. He didn’t know how much longer he had with Elio, but he would take any time Elio would give him; if Elio wanted breakfast, he would give him breakfast.

Sitting across from one another on a little terrace near the bar where Elio worked, Oliver sipped his coffee as Elio nibbled on biscotti. Oliver didn’t dare bring up the conversation of time, but Elio more than happily started the discussion. He asked Oliver how long he hoped to stay in Italy. Oliver’s mouth almost spat out something along the lines of, _As long as you’ll have me_ , but that seemed too quick too soon – though that truly was how Oliver felt.

He said he planned to head back home in two weeks, as his family would no doubt be worried about his absence. That answer, however, seemed to upset Elio, and he quickly asked if Oliver could stay longer if he let his parents know where he was. Finishing up his coffee rather quickly, Oliver asked Elio to point him in the direction of the nearest phone. Elio smiled, stood up, grabbed his biscotti, and started towards the bar. Oliver followed behind, and the two slipped in before opening hours to grab the phone behind the bar. Oliver complained that the call would cost too much, but Elio didn’t care; he would explain it to the owner later.

Oliver’s parents cared less about the fact he was in Italy and more about the fact he didn’t bring enough money to travel frivolously. The conversation was short, Oliver didn’t give them a return time, and their only request was to be back before school began in the fall. Oliver recited this conversation back to Elio, but as Oliver said he didn’t need to leave in two weeks, Elio cleared the gap between them and pressed himself against Oliver. They wound their arms around each other and collapsed onto the floor behind the bar.

Elio sat on top of Oliver, fumbling with his pants. Oliver pulled off Elio’s shirt, running his hands eagerly up and down his bare chest, and Elio finally undid Oliver’s pants, tugging them down haphazardly to his ankles. Oliver was already and unabashedly hard, the cool air fully stiffening his cock. Elio knelt over Oliver’s cock, and when his lips and mouth took him in, Oliver nearly left his body; Elio looked so beautiful, and Oliver couldn’t stop thinking about how lucky he was to even have Elio, even if it was just for the summer, just for a moment. Oliver rested his hands on Elio’s bare shoulders, and Elio’s pace and tongue quickened. Oliver kept looking into the eyes of the beautiful boy who was giving him this pleasure, and the mere sight and thought of it pushed him over the edge. Elio swallowed deeply and passionately, his body shivering as he came as well.

As soon as Elio took his lips off his cock, Oliver sat up and pulled Elio onto his lap. Elio reciprocated by wrapping his legs around Oliver’s waist, and the two sat there and looked into each other’s eyes, blissed out and candidly happy. Oliver kissed Elio’s lips and cheek and nose and forehead and neck, and Elio’s giggling was enough to make Oliver feel like he could take on the entire world.

“So,” Oliver said, placing one last kiss on Elio’s lips, “we have three months together; what’s next?”

**Author's Note:**

> Though this is marked as a completed one-shot, I can make this story a series of one-shots if the desire is there. Please leave some comments on here or message me at [harryandtimmy](http://harryandtimmy.tumblr.com) if you'd like to see that happen.
> 
> Thank you for reading; every kudos and bookmark is appreciated. If you would like to reblog this on tumblr, please do so [here](http://harryandtimmy.tumblr.com/post/181087311520/as-long-as-youll-have-me-by-harryandtimmy-oliver).


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